Monday, August 27, 2012

Earlier this year
Flumina, the third collaboration between Ryuichi Sakamoto and Fennesz,
blindsided me. A massive undertaking – two hours in length and homogenous, as
it turns out, in all the right ways – but somehow its beauty caught me
off-guard, needling its way past my defenses in tiny increments. That record not only amped up my anticipation for Ancient Future, in which Sakamoto
again lends his piano talents to an electronic framework, but it has also
adapted my approach; instead of unsuspecting, my expectations going into this
collaboration turned quite imposing.

As with Flumina, it
quickly became apparent that Ancient Future doesn’t cater much to expectations.
Unsullied guitar figures tiptoe around delicate electronic sheets and echoed
piano without an overt trajectory in mind, making for an instrumental album one
savors but doesn’t get aggressively “amped” for. And even though Willits
improvises over pre-recorded Sakamoto compositions much like Fennesz did,
providing clouds of ambience and a shifting sense of gravity, the outcomes
betray similar origins. As a duo, Willits + Sakamoto show greater tonal range, stretching
beyond the overcast ambient-plus-piano model for some faint percussive presence
grounding the flurry of “I Don’t Want To Understand” and warm guitar-playing
that adds an abstract jazz element (think ECM-styled noodling) to “Abandoned
Silence”.

Whereas many
collaborations of this ilk fall prey to the trappings of mood-music, each of
Ancient Future’s six tracks explore subtly distinct raison d’êtres without
sacrificing a cohesive temper. Lyrical and reserved, Ancient Future resounds
the magic of Sakamoto’s best partnerships (Fennesz, Alva Novo) but with a whole
new language.

In the uncertain
summer between grade school and junior high, Siamese Dream became the first
full-length I ever loved. From Side A through Side B and then back again, that
cassette spawned an obsessive adoration in me that, almost twenty years later,
feels naturally spread out across a few dozen bands that Skeleton Crew
Quarterly faithfully covers. But in the mid 1990s, the Smashing Pumpkins were music – I didn’t care to know what else was out there – and they delivered on a
seemingly biweekly basis. From Pisces Iscariot to Mellon Collie & the
Infinite Sadness and then almost two years of singles loaded with quality
B-sides, it was a fruitful time to follow Billy Corgan and Co.

So yes, I was one of
those eager people hoping Oceania would turn the page on Corgan’s
past-wrestling missives but my interest had less to do with warm nostalgia than
it did with hearing a real, full-blooded rock album again. 2012 has failed to
produce even a handful, making the timing of Corgan’s best album in a decade
feel substantial on a wider critical plane. “Quasar” may open the disc sounding
like a sludgier take on “Cherub Rock” but it feels vital nonetheless as the
vast majority of Oceania embraces a unique sonic terrain permeated by classic-rock
touches. Riff-heavy tracks like “Panopticon”, “Inkless” and “The Celestials”
breathe convincing life into Alternative Rock’s dated framework, with dense
layers of guitar and big choruses reigning. These examples are enough to regress
the popular notion that Billy Corgan can’t write songs for the current age, but
they merely hint at Oceania’s progressive edge. “One Diamond, One Heart” swings
by the momentum of a bubbling keyboard coda while the title track undergoes a
multi-song suite of acoustic balladry, warped synths and detailed percussion.
The career-low shrieking of 2007’s Zeitgeist certainly didn’t have a “Pale
Horse” or “Wildflower”, subdued songs drenched in relaxed yearning.

Taking into
consideration the band’s underdog status since reforming (repeatedly) and
becoming the counterpoint to independent music’s hipster trajectory, Oceania is a significant achievement. Not unlike other Pumpkins’ albums, it occasionally outstretches
its means – letting a decent track like “Glissandra” fall between the cracks –
but engages consistently enough to compete with whatever diluted
shoegaze/electro band is making waves this week. Will Oceania ultimately change
much beyond the Pumpkin universe? Probably not, but at the very least, it
reinforces that Pumpkinland is fully operational and looking boldly toward the
future.

Never underestimate
the importance of a record’s first track. Whatever waits within its opening
seconds will have to jostle between listeners’ expectations, their biases, and
do so without boring them stiff. The choice is greater than simply sequencing a
dominant song for the best first impression; with this first song, you’re
addressing the flakey demographic that samples thirty seconds of a full-length
at a record store listening-post or an iTunes sample stream. A first track exhibits
whether the music an artist makes is accessible or challenging, culturally
indebted or revolutionary, and weighed in artistic merit or commercial dollars.

I’m reminded of the
unfair pressure on first songs when “The Coast” sets Jennah Barry’s debut album
ablaze, building from inaudibly plucked guitar notes to a wide-open chorus and
evermore thunderous finale. The song handily kept my attention, as much for its
compositional chops as for Barry’s natural approach to performance. Her voice
carrying a vivid resemblance to Sarah Harmer’s aside, Barry’s tuneful voice
sounds perfectly at home within intricately unique songs that defy easy
categorization. A sneaky bass line forms the backbone of “Blackhole”, a short
but sweet tune that looks wistfully upon feelings of isolation, while
subsequent track “Honey” reduces the bass to a dripping Motown vibe accompanied
only by some swelling strings. By the time “To Be Patient” unspools with the
grace and swagger of a lost track from The Band, it’s difficult to argue that just
about all of Barry’s choices are stunners. Her compositions have wonderful
breathing room and their arrangements wisely eschew any extravagance that might
clutter the momentum. From a strong opening to the title track’s frost-filled, poignant
close, Young Men deserves much more than a thirty second sampling.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

A lot of time has
passed since Jason Swinscoe, mastermind of The Cinematic Orchestra, reached new
audiences with Ma Fleur, but not much has changed. Swinscoe’s muse remains
invested foremost in scoring visuals; as 2007’s breakthrough came bundled with
nostalgic photography to augment specific tracks, In Motion #1 serves cinema
via a handful of commissioned soundtracks. Moreover, five years of absence
finds The Cinematic Orchestra largely the same diluted version of its early,
Ninja-Tune-heyday self, choosing to stretch its electronic and jazz elements
thinner over spacious post-classical templates. The word “diluted” implies a
weakening, but it’s used here to denote an evolving, positive shift in the collective as it seeks more ambitious territory than Ma Fleur.

For one thing,
Swinscoe’s brought his musical family to the forefront, sharing his orchestral
pit with the likes of Dorian Concept, Tom Chant, Grey Reverend, Austin Peralta,
and others. Each is accountable for writing and performing selected tracks –
some without Swinscoe's direction at all – on In Motion #1, and it’s surprising
how their results extend The Cinematic Orchestra’s loose approach
to jazz, classical and electronic music. “Dream Work” exists as a coda
occasionally confronted by reckless horns and lush string arrangements. “Outer
Space” survives a woozy opening of squiggles like lost transmissions for a
gorgeous tonal landscape of strings, horns and a frenetic sax workout. And even
when a track hesitates to engage directly, as with Austin Peralta’s “Lapis”,
it’s a beautiful morning-song of meandering.

The spacious surplus
of these tracks – not to mention the twenty-minute spread of “Entr’acte”, a
monstrous adventure over 2007 hit “To Build A Home”'s sentimentality – is contracted by “Necrology”,
one of two Swinscoe solo tracks that realign The Cinematic Orchestra’s tight
rhythmic component via a militarized percussion layout, synthetic bass,
electric keys plus intertwining piano and guitar codas. It’s not only the first
track but a perfect launch point too, using a familiar foundation to usher In
Motion #1’s more out-there compositions.

It’s
difficult to fully assess these works without the visual context these scores deserve
but that failure to bundle the source films as a companion disc to In Motion #1
doesn’t damn the product. These expansive, if occasionally longwinded,
productions boast enough beauty and conflict to score the trials and delights
of daily life. In many ways, In Motion #1 is like a dream album from The
Cinematic Orchestra; not meaning that it’s perfect, but in the
sense that these songs occupy so much surrealist landscape, it may become a
personal favourite because it goes where few fans ever expected it to.

In a narrative
explaining the creative process of their challenging but wholly one-of-a-kind
Day Of the Demons, Charlemagne Palestine and Janek Schaefer were “howling
through the void” and making “a cocoon for the listener to hide in”,
respectively. The goal behind these efforts, that being “to ward off the demons
for the sake of the listener”, can be better understood through any of the
following three investigative tasks: (1) Buy the 12” vinyl and, if you’re
within the first 500 to do so, marvel at the Demon Mask included, (2) Download Day Of
the Demons onto your iTunes or what-have-you and note that the full-length’s
genre is listed as “Ritual”, or (3) Just listen to it.

Even if the
back-story feels weighed down in supernatural hocus-pocus, be warned: the music
sounds frighteningly on-point. These two, twenty-minute drone-pieces that form
the collaboration between Charlemagne & Janek Schaefer don’t score the
solace of being ‘demon-free’, so to speak, and instead capture an intense and
disturbing struggle to survive unscathed. The lead-up to this battle for the
soul, “Raga de L’apres Midi Pour Aude”, works as a sort of establishing shot,
instilling a buzzing drone with patient bell tolls and old-world voices singing
and chanting over one another. Although certainly eerie, Side A encompasses not
only a world away from our listening spot – one that sounds ancient,
everlasting and is therefore thought-provoking – but also a cultural and religious
hotbed of unknown origin and doctrine.

So when “Fables From
a Far Away Future” takes us into the streets – replete with outdoor
field-recordings and chatter drifting in and out – the ritual feels pretty well
wrapped up. But what happens next? I can’t be sure but Side B of Day Of the
Demons sounds very much like an exorcism from within. Layers of tense synths
overwhelm, consolidating and descending upon the listener in swarms, before a
child-like toy-box melody – yeah, nothing creepy about that – brings relief to
the feverish climax.

Day Of the Demons is
more convincing in its ability to construct dream-space than it is as a practical
listening experience, which is a compliment because I’m basically saying the
record should be felt more than it should be heard. I don’t expect many drone
fans to be jamming to Day Of the Demons in the grocery aisles because its
intensity weighs more appropriate for a sit-down event than for routine errand
running. Like a quality scary movie night, Day Of the Demons should be saved
for special, um, ritualistic occasions.

North Lakes isn’t a
folk band; that’s the realization these Prince Edward Island natives arrived at
shortly after touring for their debut album Cobra. Two years later, Grand Prix
is the summation of that insight, a quick dose of high-octane rock and roll.
Chocked full of classic rock chords and speedway-on-cocaine tempos, the likes
of “Avalanche” and “Vixen” ascend bar-band riffs and ride them until they’ve
lost their punch.

Since the element of
surprise usually topples around the two-and-a-half minute mark, that makes
Grand Prix’s twenty-four minutes a pretty swift kick in the ass. Melodically
“Vixen” has the upper hand on the competition, trading spoken-word swagger and
jangly guitar with a memorably boisterous chorus. While everything preceding
that closing track carries a comparable confidence, tracks such as “Grab Me By
the Lapel” and “The Holy Water” thrash about in a bid to defend vulnerable
centers. By no means are North Lakes trying to dress these songs up; each feels
pretty upfront in their passion for straightforward, drunk-in-the-sun jams but
that’s precisely where this album should remain – in the midst of lost weekends.

North Lakes make
some convincing Can-Con noise with “Hands-Off Director” and “Baptism In
Burgundy”, enough so that I’d feel lame delving into some perceived mastering
flaws because I don’t think fans are going to care. For some, Grand Prix will be lovable as much for its limitations as for its strengths.

Friday, August 17, 2012

An oft forgotten joy
of buying from Bandcamp is that you receive a kind Thank You email courtesy of
the artist you’ve just supported. It isn’t really the musicians writing you a
personal note of gratitude of course but, with the state of the industry and
the financial effects it imposes on artists, the email still feels genuine enough
to give you good vibes all evening. On the other hand, the Thank You email one
receives from buying on Chris Reimer’s Bandcamp page induces an unsettling mix of emotions; the same
disbelief, sadness and confusion felt across the independent music scene when
the untimely death of Chris Reimer, Women guitarist and burgeoning solo artist,
was announced in February.

Opening my inbox to
find an email from “Chris Reimer” with his thanks was enough to resurface those
surreal sentiments, but The Chad Tape goes miles further in explaining exactly
what we’ve lost. “Trees Die In Switzerland” lurches into earshot with a
detuned acoustic dirge and distant flute melody married by some low-end
feedback rustling around. The graceful, understated nature of it reveals that,
for one thing, The Chad Tape is a collection of ambient music. But moreover,
Chris Reimer had a keen ear for the challenging genre that anyone can do, but
few do well.

The dichotomy
applied to “Trees Die In Switzerland”, where a soothing lead shares space with
undercurrents of despair and seclusion, deepens many of the tracks collected
by Reimer’s loved ones. “Finnish Song (2)” evokes a barren landscape where
found-sounds clatter across its plain while, on “Overweight Motorcycle Cops”,
some outdoor field-recordings are caught between a tragic violin arrangement
and some curious synths loitering nearby.

The latter track,
which fades out within a minute of getting really interesting, reminds
listeners that The Chad Tape was unfinished at the time of Reimer’s passing.
Although it’s impossible to know how this record might’ve sounded as a complete
artistic statement, The Chad Tape echoes the approach Reimer, Chad VanGaalen
(who mastered this cassette), and the rest of Women brought to that band’s stunning
catalog: dense but seemingly vacant production, a hopeful yet menacing duality, and illuminating hooks despite all of the music’s dark corners. Which is to say, The Chad
Tape wouldn’t sound unfinished if not for our tragic understanding to the
contrary; at most, its current incarnation would’ve probably earned a few more ‘avant-garde’
accolades, had Reimer lived to receive them.

The Chad Tape is
limited to 200 copies and going quickly. Proceeds from physical and digital
sales will benefit the Chris Reimer Legacy Fund, which provides music and dance
scholarships to children. Support and listen here.

I traveled once to
Banff, Alberta, and was lucky enough to drive through the Rocky Mountains.
Their foggy snowcaps and rocky ledges aping upward were stupefying to stand
witness to. But after hours winding around their beauty, it all began to lose
scale; only so many successive highs and sprawling vistas can motivate someone before
the stimulation turns over, in effect draining the sightseer until they’re
transient gazers merely taking photographs to appreciate later. Similarly
Lights Out Asia only know how to make epic records and eventually that poses a
problem. Listeners can appreciate the band’s vision, to create shimmering aural
worlds to wander through, but with each likeminded marathon, the scale wobbles;
big downgrades to average, explosive crescendos become expected and the whole
weight of the project turns tedious.

Lights Out Asia (now
the duo of Mike Ystad and Chris Schafer, since guitarist Mike Rush departed)
have taken to the boundaries of their collective imagination to find ways of
contextualizing this scale; 2010’s In the Days Of Jupiter went into the far
reaches of space and this 2012 effort occupies a mysterious,
almost-definitely fictitious island. An inventive association with terrain
makes sense for a band so adept at creating atmosphere but it can’t ground
Hy-Brasil’s seventy-minute runtime when it’s sonically still up in space. This
new odyssey sounds exactly like In the Days Of Jupiter – and, in no small way,
like earlier albums – as if Lights Out Asia haven’t traded in so much as a
pedal or guitar-effect since they signed to n5MD five years ago. Right out of
the gate, that stagnancy kills any conceptual elements Hy-Brasil had considered
playing with.

Geographical
indifference aside, a track like “Running Naked Through Underground Cities” reveals
that the n5MD mainstays still have ample fuel in the tank with a richly
hypnotic, four-by-four bass line pushing a smeared synth track of Schafer’s
remotely romantic, multi-tracked vocals. Concise but yearning, it sits near the
crest of the band’s high watermark, 2007’s Tanks and Recognizers. Unlike that
record, however, where two alien languages – post-rock and electronica –
assembled into something at once cohesive and earthshakingly combative,
Hy-Brasil’s merger feels rooted in habit, not catharsis, and nullifies both the
ferocious and atmospheric halves of the Lights Out Asia brand. As a result, supposedly
emotional slow-burners like “An Imperfect System” and “They Disappear Into the
Palms” drift redundantly by.

It pains me to see
Lights Out Asia let their trademark sound and ambition drain into the same
bloated framework, where more upsurges and climaxes mean increasingly less and less. At this
stage the best thing Lights Out Asia can do is record a four-song EP using only
acoustic instruments and analog electronics. Sure it would mean retooling the
whole process and educating themselves on some new hardware, but the results
would accomplish more than this reverse shock-and-awe. They’d be establishing fresh
contrast to a discography that, after Hy-Brasil, sorely needs a change in direction.

Monday, August 13, 2012

August, while still
very much a summer month, is when I habitually begin collecting records that'll keep me company during autumn. Like some process of reverse hibernation,
I store up all of these anticipated release dates for that day the humidity falls, a cool breeze begins rising and I can step outside revitalized.

What I’m trying to
say is that August is a stupid time to unveil Skeleton Crew Quarterly’s Summer
Records feature; the anticipation is long gone and the season’s hottest days
are already waning. Had I not spent the past two months living out of suitcases
and being separated from my laptop, my music or both, SCQ’s Summer Records 2012
would’ve posted sometime in June. Still, by no means should these three titles be
restrained by dwindling temperatures when each stunner will be blasting from
Skeleton Crew Quarterly’s new office well into the colder months.

Have a listen,
breathe in these summer days and welcome the change in the air.

At the present
moment, it’s easy to take a band like Tanlines for granted. Upon first listen,
they cater to the same blog-fueled craze for 80s reinvention that’s virtually
too crowded a scene to pick names out of. From that assessment alone, Tanlines
efficiently checklists a myriad of obvious qualifications: lots of dated
synths, echoed drum patterns, and morose but catchy choruses. But what stubbornly
renders Tanlines essential listening in 2012 can be deduced less from that
New-Wave formula but how the Brooklyn–based duo toys with it.

Coarsely put, Jesse
Cohen and Eric Emm filter Cut/Copy’s vein of anthemic 80s-for-indie-kids’ cool
down to its most visceral gears. By deconstructing much of the gloss and
frills, Mixed Emotions boasts strengths that pack a more human punch than your
average, overproduced synth-athon. Emm’s vocals, which add an impassioned
urgency to each track, sit front and center on defused techno highlights “Not
The Same” and “Brothers” while Cohen keeps the record’s percussive flair
inimitable by adding a tribal sense of momentum to even-keeled tracks like
“Lose Somewhere” and “Real Life”.

Mixed Emotions still
has a luxurious vibe that comes naturally to fun electro-pop records, showcased
most exquisitely on “Rain Delay”, “Abbey” and the sentimental “Nonesuch”, but it's never used as a means of covering for one-dimensional songwriting. Tanlines is worthy
of honing the 80s muse because their hands-on approach never confuses man with
machine.

Simon Scott’s first
release on the 12K imprint deserves mention firstly for being his most
personal. Below Sea Level is the culmination of two years the former Slowdive
drummer spent visiting the Fens marshland in eastern England – a spot both
agriculturally controversial and sentimental to Scott’s childhood – to track
field recordings and expose the musicality of his memories. The results lay as
the backbone to these seven tracks, over which Scott blurred guitar and
synthesizer, in real time, during his stays there.

As well as
representing Scott’s childhood and ancestral ties, Below Sea Level proves a
remarkable merger of purely organic soundscapes and leftfield electronics; in
short, because it’s often difficult to dissect which is which. Tracks two and
three (note: each track is numerical as sequenced) bleed like reedy drones
under the wavering of looping harmonics and swathes of digital backwash. But
just as often, Scott steps back from the ambient tussle and lets the landscape
speak back in birdcalls, amphibian croaks, water ripples, and nearby machinery.
The reality of Scott’s location causes a virtual standstill during track four,
overwhelming any traditional song-form, whereas it weaves a bubbling catharsis
into track seven’s celestial electronics. Best yet are the tracks where Scott
fingerpicks some guitar into the aural scenery, providing bucolic timbres of
psychedelia that are simple but inspiring.

To those few
listeners aware of the territory’s conflicted history, Below Sea Level will
likely plumb deeper emotional depths but even oblivious fans should ascribe to
the record’s stark and seasonal affinity. In some cases, Scott seems to be
playing for the present moment, merely coexisting with a complicated patch of
nature. In its most satisfying moments, however, Below Sea Level sounds like a poignant
farewell.

“We do play fun dance music, but the lyrical
content is usually a little more dire. In terms of lyricism, it's always been
important to me to be singing about things that are actually going on, and
difficult for me, but I don't want the band to be a total bummer all the time.”
– Nik Kozub, from Exclaim! interview.

Everything from the
band’s name down to the reputation of their catalog has seemingly hinged on a
party ethic – their name elongated for mind-bending reveries, their fat beats primed
for speakers aimed sloppily out of bedroom windows. At least that’s how I
viewed the band and their loyal audience: as cosmic kids more interested in
raising heartbeats per minute than delivering double-edged swords so sharp,
they’re nearly bipolar. But that’s the clever prick of Spanish Moss And Total
Loss, a carefully nuanced paradox that hides a lot of heartbreak behind the
party exterior.

While Nik Kozub
makes clear that the band’s matching of good vibes and sour lyrics has been a
well-trodden approach, it’s arguably never been as addicting as on Spanish Moss And Total Loss. Of course it never hurts to have a barn-burning opener like
“Now That I’ve Given Up Hope, I Feel Much Better” to launch things properly,
its elastic bass and handclap rhythm thrown off-kilter by a haunted piano
refrain. From that highlight, Shout Out Out Out Out dive into spaced-out
kosmiche (“How Do I Maintain, Part 3”), vocoder-fed techno (“Wayward
Satellite”) and saxophone-assisted electro-pop (“Never the Same Way Twice”)
without betraying the emotional duality that creates their simmering conflict.

The Edmonton-based six-piece
don’t repeat themselves although their template does show some dilution by the
time “Knowing” lurches tepidly to a close. Preceding track “Lessons In
Disappearing” anticipates that soft collapse, taking the swagger from late disco
on an autopilot romp. One could argue that Spanish Moss And Total Loss bails on
the party by its final third but, more than likely, the back-end’s busy synths
provide an artifice to distract from the band’s declining emotional commitment.
Maybe that numbness is an honest result after the party’s peak has passed, or who
knows – maybe Shout Out Out Out Out are lessening their grip on the vocoder in
order to express deeper analog-based chasms.

Friday, August 10, 2012

At a glimpse, Phil
Elverum’s muse, particularly under his Mount Eerie guise, seems largely focused
on one mountainous patch of the Pacific Northwest. Yet surprisingly, like an
aging love letter to Anacortes, Washington, the last decade of Elverum’s career
has adventured a series of artistic maneuvers that only the casual fan could
consider genre-exercises. However distinctly the metal leanings of Wind’s Poem
might grate against Lost Wisdom’s pared down folk, they all speak a language of
isolation and lay out a treacherous sonic geography. This year’s Clear Moon not
only relieves any fears brought on by 2010’s patchy odds-and-sods opus Song
Islands Vol 2, it represents a triumph in his perpetual search for identity
and home.

Featuring methodical
acoustic strumming and deeply sparse percussion, “Through the Trees Pt 2” finds
the Mount Eerie trademarks neatly aligned but pitted in a tonal overcast of
dull synth-layers rumbling in the background. Narrative-wise, one might imagine
Clear Moon unfolding similarly to 2003's Mount Eerie’s tale of a boy journeying toward
the peak of his hometown; similarly, “Through the Trees Pt 2” carries a
complacent calm that only hints at the desperate times laying in wait. Darkly
psychedelic dirges like “The Place Lives” and the terrifying title track sit
just past the horizon but the trip is tempered by compositions that keep
Elverum an unpredictable songwriter. The rhythmic menacing of “House Shape”
keeps the momentum fresh while the bombastic horn presence on “Lone Bell”
shimmers with iridescent hope.

A wide-eyed look at
the terrifying, looming and beautiful, Clear Moon showcases Phil Elverum’s
vehicle in yet another atmospheric setting. It reads as bleak – and, make no
mistake, it is – but there’s also something in the way Elverum arranges his
darkness that latches onto listeners in a fun way. Those who take comfort in
completely inhospitable records will roundly rejoice.

Without having lived
it, I can still imagine a time when monochromatic album covers and illegible
band names suggested the vast possibilities of independent music’s leftfield.
Here in the Bandcamp era, however, they make pretty lousy bedfellows. It would
be a dangerous first impression for a young artist to welcome even had Nathaniel
Eras’ chosen sound not converged with the experimental electronic fringe that
so many reclusive laptop artists now throw their names at. But for those of you
who agree with the above sentiments and are, by deduction, modern cynics, take
heed: Eras gives a jolt of brainy goodness to a scene ripe with talent but unerringly
cloned over.

Beneath the
industrial stomps that shellshock “Coma” and the saturated hiss spilling out of
“Taxa” waits a convincing melodic sensibility, capable of reorganizing the
initial clamoring into something deviously constructed but unique in mood.
“Deus” reveals this strength early on Portals, infiltrating a distant choral
with an assortment of toybox chimes and minimal touches of bass. “Abeo” and
“Ares” continue uncovering Eras’ keen but quiet ear with subtle beat workouts
that tonally call to mind Aphex Twin’s Drukqs. These simmering tracks belie the
popular impulse to tack some sort of euphoric explosion at the close. It’s
Eras’ restlessness, felt in nearly inaudible twists and turns, which prevents
the record from getting sleepy.

Granted I’ve been
neglecting to mention a half of Portals more menacing than meditative. “Eros”
makes an early impression, strutting out in digitized arpeggios, swelling R
& B basslines and a thick trip-hop beat. “Oath”, on the other hand, chants
and squeals its way through an imaginary horror soundtrack that’s rather
unnerving. Despite some uneasy listening, the latter example probably benefits
Portals even if it isn’t exactly my cup of tea, providing traction and variety
to counter the agitated beauty of the calmer highlights. In any case, Eras
reaffirms why people should wander Bandcamp’s daunting universe. Because
sometimes, you find life.

If there’s an
obligatory mention regarding The Brian Jonestown Massacre more tired than
references to the increasingly time-capsuled documentary Dig!, it’s the
assertion that Anton Newcombe makes music 'to do drugs to'. The very
straightforwardness of it almost screams like an English as Second Language
translation, not to mention a backhanded compliment to records as stand-alone
brilliant as Give It Back! and Bravery, Repetition and Noise. Newcombe may
exude an addict’s smoky snarl when surfacing over the mesmerizingly lethargic “Gaz
Hilarant” but he’s actually been sober for over two years, which all but
highlights my main beef with “music to do drugs to”: namely, what music can’t
you do drugs to? An album that’s too sedate? Or bands whose performances are
too high-strung? Or are we really talking about whatever music you don’t like?

By that
understanding, if Aufheben – a German word meaning “to lift up” as well as “to
abolish” – warrants the “drug music” flair on its digi-pack sleeve, it’s
because these eleven songs, under any influence or none, prove very likeable.
Better integrating the world-music interests boasted on 2010’s Who Killed Sgt.
Pepper? to BJM’s classic retro-futurist rock tendencies, Newcombe has
constructed his most level-headed and consistently engaging record since …And
This Is Our Music back in 2003. Of the methodical percussion, subtle 60s bass
breakdowns and dreamy vibes floating overtop, “I Want to Hold Your Other Hand”
validates Newcombe as a still convincing prodigy on days he’s disinterested in
chaos and destruction. Disciplined songwriting echoes that good behaviour during
other mid-tempo head-grooves like “The Clouds Are Lies” and “Stairway To the
Best Party In the Universe”, the latter deserving a place in the batter’s box
of any forthcoming BJM hits collection.

Don’t mistake Newcombe’s
good behaviour for playing it safe though, as Aufheben teases these mellow,
Krautrock tunes between scores of exotic string-arrangements and left-field
instrumentals. Not terribly unlike Sgt. Pepper’s opener “Tempo 116.7”, “Panic
In Babylon” sets the tone with an urgent drum-beat, Eastern horns and a
palpable sense of good old-fashioned, old-world dread while “Face Down On the
Moon” opts for a more meditative slice of lead flute and sitar harmonics. Match
these instrumentals with “Viholliseni Maalla”, a potent dream-pop collaboration
with vocalist Eliza Karmasalo, and Aufheben balances well the alien and expected
poles of one stunning vista.

Perhaps more
importantly, the tumultuous outfit’s thirteenth full-length makes a persuasive
bid to those still clamoring over Dig! highlights, insisting that The Brian
Jonestown Massacre have survived their own implosion. Having concreted a new
core of top-notch musicians who can handle his personality (Spaceman 3’s Will
Carruthers and BJM veteran Matt Hollywood), Newcombe’s forging ahead with
Aufheben, making “out there” music reliant on no fan’s opinions, no record
company’s advances and no instant magic from a ziplock bag. In other words, a brave new world.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

2009’s Continent
felt at once out of time and perfectly suited to the year’s turning fashions:
Balaeric, old school analog beats and even some hints of chill-wave. The
concoction fit together like a twelve-piece puzzle but in the absence of an
oversized ego, CFCF mastermind Michael Silver’s grab-bag of influences almost
came off as too easy, too slick. Even now, the records best moments – arguably
some of the best electronic gems heard in 2009 – battle against neighbouring
songs that, while just as mature, seem to dilute Continent’s overall statement.

Michael Silver
needed a bigger persona in order to pass off Continent’s ambitions as more than
simple generosity. Here, on Exercises, the trappings of artistic ego fall in
Silver’s favour. The 24-year-old beatsmith remains as veiled behind his
compositions as before but with a tighter, low-key focus, this new album nails a
special chemistry. Democratically split between Philip Glass styled piano explorations and Gamelan-tinged electronic pieces, Exercises works on a
higher level emotionally than its predecessor – and in roughly half of the
run-time.

Traces of his other
influences remain, and he’s reached back into early synthesizer tones for a few
early 80s documentary vibes, but ultimately beat-oriented tracks like “Exercise
2 (School)” and “Exercise 8 (Change)” borrow unique character from their
cautious neighbours. Occupied by tidy piano chords and thick swathes of synth,
“Exercise 1 (Entry)” and “Exercise 6 (December)” seem skybound, with Silver’s
ivories descending like snowflakes against a black canvas. The mini-album’s
sure to flex its approach enough to supply at least one stunner – “Exercise 5
(September)”, complete with subdued vocals and a gliding momentum – but it acts
less like a dancefloor hit than a euphoric centerpiece to an otherwise somber
walk through town.

Note: this cover art boasts the vinyl track-listing, not the digital version that features eight tracks.

In anticipation of
IglooFest, an annual, outdoor dance-party that takes place amid Montreal’s subzero
temperatures, I haphazardly downloaded a pair of Max Cooper EPs for the sake of
familiarizing myself. What seemed like a simple means to an end grew
exponentially with each listen, and by the time I watched Cooper perform over a
cloud of icy perspiration a week later, I’d breached a strain of techno that
has always felt too inclusive for my liking.

Egomodal EP does
belong to a different set of electronic ears – listeners who don’t pay much
mind to the more indie-leaning “home-listening electronica”, I suspect – and is
organized for uninterrupted momentum. For an hour-long EP, that means almost
half of that span belongs to remixes, which sound a lot like Cooper’s originals
despite a few extra gears working on overdrive. As for the main draw, Cooper’s
five new tracks further the melodically charged vein of Expressions EP into
increasingly complex arrangements. Most recognizable of that 2010 release is “Autumn
Haze”, a track of crystalline blips that bounce intrepidly over a subtly nostalgic
string backing. The challenging “Epitaphy” and “Micron” whirl around devious
rhythm loops and haunting atmospheres whereas “Simplexity” takes the
experimental route, flirting with industrial and dubstep flavours that muddle
Cooper’s primary talents. Although easily one of the composer’s most generous
outings, Egomodal EP is also rather patchy, sliding an assortment of remixes
that prolong if not protect the record’s playability. (Granted, Rone’s cosmic
take on “Simplexity” completely outshines the original.)

Regardless, here’s
an artist who, over a dozen releases in, still hasn’t offered a full-length
debut and really, who needs one? As long as each year finds another Max Cooper
EP or maxi-single that reasserts his peculiar brand of techno, armchair
appreciators and dancefloor purists can continue to coexist splendidly.

Max Cooper will be
returning to North American shores for Decibel Festival, happening September 26th
through 30th.